


Laundry Day

by bravest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:32:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravest/pseuds/bravest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is a brat about clothes and laundry. Dean finds out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry Day

The days following Castiel's fall require adjusting for everyone. He's hungry, needs to clean up, and he once attempts shaving on his own, and Sam finds him bleeding from multiple cuts into the bathroom sink. His hands sometimes shake, and he's often hit with a sapping, draining fatigue that makes even the few steps to the bedroom feel like climbing Mt. Everest. He needs clothes, too. Anything Sam wears is three sizes too big, so Dean ends up providing clothing for Cas, picking out some old stuff he doesn't really wear anymore. Dean considers the fact that he even has enough clothes a luxury, and thanks the Men of Letters for giving them a place, for making them both be able to own more things than whatever fits in a duffel bag. He does this on the first night, when Castiel's coat and dress shirt are too matted with blood to be worn through his first night home.

When Dean hands Castiel the clothes, he picks through them before saying anything. There's a package of socks and boxers in there, brand new, but everything else is Dean's. He barely even looks thankful, Dean thinks, watching him hold up every article of clothing, eyes narrowed and critical.

"Sorry if you don't like it, buddy, but you can't really afford to be picky 'cause my stuff's all you're going to get," he says from his spot leaning on the door frame, arms crossed.

Castiel pauses mid examination, shirt held up to his face, and shoots him a scalding look, like he's fully aware that he's going to have to make do with these, despite thinking he's worth a trip to the store. He's still wearing the old sleep pants Dean gave him that first night, and an old shirt worn thin by years of wear.

"Show me how to do laundry," he says as he drops the shirt on the pile and turns to Dean. There's no polite request in his tone, just an order, a demand.

Dean's eyebrows raise as he pushes himself off of the doorframe, arms crossing again. Sometimes taking care of a still shaken, fallen Cas was just like taking care of a kid.

"What's the magic word?"

"Dean," he says, and his face turns into a plea, his voice says his name like he means it, and fuck it. 

"You're a little shit," Dean says, jabbing his finger at Castiel's chest before turning away to stomp to the laundry room. He catches a brief glimpse of a smirk and decides that as soon as Cas is good and settled he'll see who's boss. For now, he kind of goes along with his whims, tries to be patient with the baby-no-longer-in-a-trenchcoat.

It takes a short time for Castiel to understand how the washing machines work. He nods as Dean shows him where everything is, what buttons to press, what heat to use for colors and whites. He's long stopped being embarrassed by the attention he gives to laundry. It was a necessity, when John was absent for days at a time, for him to do his own laundry as well as Sam's. He always took meticulous care so his brother's clothes wouldn't end up too small for him.

"Thank you," Cas says when Dean is done, and he gives him a nod.

"Maybe the first time you do a batch I'll stick around, just so you don't break them," Dean says, motioning at the washing machines with his hand. They're huge, ancient, but they work great, and he would be pissed to find them in need of repair. Or replacement. "Pretty sure I can't find babies like this anywhere nowadays."

"I won't break them," Cas says, and Dean feels his eyes on him as he walks to the door.

"Yeah, that's what Sam said before he busted the radio with his sasquatch hands," Dean grumbles, turning back to see Cas still standing in the middle of the room. "Are you coming or do you need a minute with the dryer?" He sighs, wondering when the hell Cas will stop being so infuriating, so  _weird_. A fleeting thought crosses his mind, that maybe it's his problem, that he doesn't understand Cas as much as he thinks he does, but he hates it and shoves it away.

"I need a minute, if that's alright," Cas says, his eyes looking everywhere but at him. Dean hesitates at the door, watches Cas for a second and tries to figure out just what he's doing, what's happening here -- and decides he'd rather be making burgers for everyone than try and figure out what the walking enigma in his favorite shirt is up to.

A minute becomes 5, 10, 20 minutes. Dean looks at his watch, chews on his handful of peanuts, flips through an old newspaper he can't focus on. Sam is sitting next to him, letting out exasperated sighs. There's a fresh sandwich next to him that he hasn't touched yet.

Dean checks his watch again, wondering what's taking so long, and that he'll kill him if he's tinkering with the machines. There isn't much to  _do_ in there after all, and maybe Cas thinks it'll be funny, like the pranks he's been victim to, that he's witnessed between Sam and him.

A hand slams on the table, jerking him out of his thoughts.

"Dude, go check on him already, you've looked at your watch 3 times in he past five minutes!" Sam says, sounding like the most irritated parent.

"Jesus, Sam!"

" _Go_ ," he says again, pointing down the hall, and he's doing that annoying face where his lips tighten and his nose kinda scrunches up and his eyebrows are all frowny. Dean focuses on how much he hates that face rather than the embarrassment of being caught waiting on Cas,  _pining_ at his 20 minute absence.

"Fine," he says through gritted teeth. He gets up and starts to leave, before thinking twice. He swipes Sam's sandwich from his plate, takes a big bite all while giving him one of his wide-eyed, crazed looks, and then throws it back in its place. Sam snorts laughter and Dean hears him say _idiot_ under his breath as he stomps off to the laundry room.

What he finds there is not what he expected.

Castiel is sitting on the floor indian style, completely naked, watching clothes tumble in circles in the dryer. He's thankfully facing away from Dean, so he doesn't see anything except his back, the line of his spine, and then his eyes shoot right back up and why is this happening. It's like they picked up a homeless person off the street, someone so out of touch with others and reality that they have no idea what common sense even is.

"Cas, what the fuck?!" He yells, and his eyes widen in panic when Cas glances over his shoulder and begins to get up. "No, shit! Don't do -- don't do that!" He calls, waving a hand in front of him, reaching out so he can cover Castiel with it, or at least the area that matters. Shit, no, he means the area he doesn't  _want to see_. It doesn't matter!

"Hello, Dean."

"What are you doing naked in my laundry room Cas explain this to me right now," he hisses, just as the machine buzzes and comes to a stop.

"I was doing laundry," he says, frowning, and Dean thinks he can't be that unaware, he can't know you don't just sit around naked on the floor. Dean keeps his eyes away from Cas, but sees him head to the machine and open it's doors from the corner of his eyes.

"Naked?! I left you more clothes for a reason," he says. There's movement, Cas getting dressed, he thinks. He drops his hand but his eyes are on the ceiling, unwilling to look at his friend just yet.

"I don't like them," he hears Cas say, and his voice is closer, and there's the soft padding of bare feet on concrete. Okay, deep breath, Winchester. He squeezes his eyes, holds his breath in, and then opens them to find Cas standing  _right there_. Shirtless, and for an instant he's too scared to let his eyes drop lower. He catches the frayed edge of one of his old pair of boxers, and he lets the breath out roughly through his nose.

"You're picky," he mutters at Cas, who is holding the shirt and pants he'd been wearing in his arms. He's giving Dean a look that is essentially  _I can do what I want_ , the slight curve of his lips too smug for Dean's taste. It reeks of intention, of knowing exactly what he's doing.

He's standing close, and he feels the warmth of the clothes in Cas' arms against his own. Cas shoves the shirt at Dean's chest, pressing it there. Their eyes are locked and Dean is pretty sure there is too much tension in the room for it to be normal. Who has tension over  _laundry_?

"You said this one was your favorite, so I washed it for you," Cas says, and fuck if that isn't cute, and Dean doesn't know much about people doing things for him, however small.

"Uh, thanks?" He stammers, unsure, and Cas' hand is still holding the shirt at Dean's chest so he reaches for it, his fingers brushing Castiel's hand. The fucker keeps it there, too, looks at him with a glint in his eyes that he doesn't like because it makes his insides turn to mush. It feels like an eternity goes by before Cas steps back, the pair of pants held against his side under his arm.

"What about -- " Dean starts, finger pointing down, waving.  _What about my underwear_ , he'd meant to say, but that sounded weird, really fucking weird, or maybe it was the air between them, maybe the dryer had heated the room a few degrees and that's why he feels sweat pooling at his lower back.

"These?" Cas asks, and reaches to hook his fingers into the elastic band, slaps it against the skin of his hips and oh jesus christ it's definitely not the dryer. "I'm keeping them," he declares, and promptly, brushes past Dean.

He pauses next to him, and Dean can feel Castiel's skin brush against the side of his arm. He shouldn't like it. But he really, really does. Cas tilts his head, turns it so his lips are near his ear.

"I like how they feel," he says, five words, right into Dean's ear. He feels his breath on his skin and his skin erupts with goosebumps and shit fuck goddammit the asshole knows exactly what he's doing, doesn't he?

Dean opens his mouth but Cas' hand comes to rest at his chest again, and he lets his fingers drag there as he leaves. Dean peeks over the doorframe, watches Cas' back as he walks away in his underwear and wonders if it would take much to get them off of him.

The shirt that he holds against his chest is dropped and forgotten as he hurries after Cas to find out.


End file.
